90 lbs of Dead Skin

They are crawling up and out of me, dark little figures with round hands and feet. Deep grins and darker giggles, I see them now, circling and centering over some little particular. They join hands, as well as hand-less oddities can join, and dance around it, as if it were a sacral fire. And their little bodies are in the way of me seeing it, they move too quickly for me to make it out between their forms. And the song they sing gets faster, faster, as I try to will them to slow, and then they are no long individuals, but a black ring circling, growing in width until they are now a black dot, blotting out the point of interest, the thought I was looking to find, the word on the tip of my tongue, the story I wanted to tell. What terrible little creatures.